Hell Freezes Over
Part Two
February 1963-February 1964
Down for the Count
The darkness was the worst. Even though the sun was staying up a few minutes more each day, my daily treks to the control room, chow hall, rec room and club, were all made via the darkened and claustrophobic hallways. Probably because of safety concerns due to severe weather and predators, there not very many windows in any of public access areas and none in the hallways—all adding to the dark and depressing atmosphere within the radar station.
A few weeks after I’d had the first dream I walked back into my room after my work shift to find Tommy packing up his belongings.
“Hey,” he said as he finished shoving the last of his underwear into his duffle bag. “I’m moving into another room down the hall. It’s a one-man room, so I asked if I could have it when it became vacant.”
“Oh,” I said, a little bit surprised. “So, am I getting a new roommate?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think so. Looks like you’ll have this room all to yourself. At least for a while.”
I sat down on the edge of my bunk, understanding the real reason why he was leaving.
“Hey Tommy, I’m sorry for always waking you up…you know…when I have the nightmares.”
He avoided looking at me and just shrugged his shoulders. “Naw, no sweat. I think us working these opposite shifts isn’t doing either of us any good. So….”
He left the word hanging and zipped up his duffle.
I sat on the edge of my bunk for a couple of minutes watching him finish putting some personal items into an empty shoe box, then decided that maybe I’d just write a letter home. I got up and pulled the metal chair out from under the table and sat down, staring out of our one heavily grilled window into the frigid inky darkness. Opening the drawer on the right side of the table/desk (my side), I pulled out the writing pad and a ball-point pen. Staring at the blank sheet of paper, I kept wondering to whom I should write, and what I should say.
The back of my brain sent forth this suggestion:
—
Dear Abby,
Today my roommate left me. He’s moving out because I scare the bejesus out of him every night whenever I wake up screaming after having my regularly scheduled, terrifyingly heart-stopping nightmare.
What do I do now?
Signed,
Confused
—
Dear Confused,
I’ll make this short and sweet.
You’re sort of worthless, right? So save us all a lot of trouble and just eat the barrel of your combat rifle already.
Abby
—
“Well, I guess that’s it.” Tommy said, startling me out of my funk. “I’ll be seeing you…maybe at the club sometime.”
“Sure, see you.” I said, not looking up.
I turned around as he walked out of the room and pulled the door closed behind him. I looked back down at the writing pad again, and felt a wave of deep sadness wash slowly over me. Losing the will to write, I put the pen down and got up, walking over to the door and flipping the light switch off, plunging my room into complete blackness. I stood there for a little while letting my eyes adjust to the darkness then carefully felt my way back to my bed.
Still dressed in my full uniform, boots and all, I drew my knees up to my chest and pulled the sheet and thin olive-green blanket over my head.
Never too far away from my mind, the damp stone cell slowly began taking shape and soon the rest of the dreadful dream began to play itself out—ending exactly as it had every night for the past few months.
Afterwards, laying on my bed in the darkness, frightened, trembling and slightly out of breath, I knew where I had to go and what I had to do.
A few minutes later, having left my dark room and mechanically navigating the now familiar hallways, I climbed a stool in the near empty club and ordered my usual. A half empty bottle of Jack Daniels was placed before me, followed by a pitcher of cold water and an empty shot glass. After carefully pouring the first shot I brought the glass quickly up to my lips and closed my eyes.
Throwing my head back, I let Mr. Daniels slide easily down my throat, suppressing that now very familiar gagging reflex. As the whiskey’s hotness exploded in my upper abdomen I sent a swallow of ice-cold water down to quell the heat and help speed the mood-altering alcohol into my system. I swallowed a few more, waiting for the liquor’s warmth to rise and float that numbness up and around my face and ratchet my mood down to its more manageable ‘give-a-shit’ setting. Chuckling at my self-deprecating humor, I slid off the stool to pay a visit to the men’s room.
Upon returning I found that my bottle had disappeared.
“Hey Jack! What the fuck? I didn’t I kill that bottle already, did I?” I yelled, maybe a little too loud as I pulled myself onto the suddenly unsteady barstool.
Another bartender, not Jack, came around from the opposite side of the bar.
“Nope. You’re done. Go back to your room and sleep it off!” He said gruffly, while removing the half empty pitcher of water and my shot glass.
“What?” I responded angrily and loudly. “What the fuck you talking about? I paid my tab a few days ago. I’m good…”
“Just some friendly advice, Frank.” The bartender interrupted, wiping down the little section of bar I was occupying, “you’ve had enough, so I’m cutting your ass off. Don’t make a scene or I’ll fucking put you on report. I don’t want to have to do that, but I sure as fuck will if you keep giving me shit! So just ease on outta here and go to your room and sleep it off.”
For a few seconds I thought that maybe he was just kidding, so I tried to smile and stare him down at the same time. He stared back, not smiling.
I broke my withering stare and looked around the bar. Everyone was either ignoring the situation, or throwing suspicious glances my way from the corners of their eyes. Not completely convinced that he was within his rights, I thought that if I just sat there he would have to give in eventually and serve me.
Thankfully, a cloudy but semi-intelligent thought finally fought its way into my frontal lobes. You really need to get some rest because you have to work tomorrow. Plus, you sure don’t want to be barred from the club because you pissed off the bartenders.
“OK, you win.” The words came out slurred. I slid off the stool and walked unsteadily through the club’s swinging saloon-like doors and headed for the hallway.
I don’t really recall the walk back to my room, but I do remember pulling the wastebasket close to my bed as I lay my head down and the room began to spin. The rest of that night I got very little sleep as my body was constantly racked by violent spasms of nausea and my head tortured by a severe headache. Not having had anything to eat before visiting the club made my nausea worse, quickly advancing to a prolonged and agonizing period of dry heaves—and leaving the bitter taste of bile in my mouth.
Better late than never, the dream returned with a vengeance that night.
Staggering into the control room a few hours later I was hoping that the assignment sheet had me working the dais for the first few hours of my shift. If I had to go back behind the data board and stand on my feet for a couple of hours plotting tracks, I would surely die.
As I pulled the “Assignments” clipboard off the wall I heard someone calling my name. I turned to see the shift sergeant motioning me to come with him. I hooked the clipboard back onto the wall and followed him into a small break room usually reserved for the Officer of the Shift.
He held the door for me as I walked in and closed it behind me.
“OK,” he started out, looking awfully serious. “First off, you need to go back to your room and gargle some Listerine. You stink!”
I instantly closed my mouth and stopped breathing.
“You got a fresh uniform to put on?”
“I think so. Why? What’s wrong with this one?” I looked down and realized that I was wearing the same uniform that I’d slept in.
“Don’t ask any fucking questions! Just listen!”
“Yes sir!”
He looked at his watch. “It’s zero-six-twelve now—so after you clean yourself up, you are to report to the base commander’s office at zero-eight-hundred. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“And on second thought, take a long hot shower too. Maybe you can sweat some of that booze out of your system before you see the major. Questions?”
“Well, no. But is something wrong? Why do I have to see the commander?”
“My God! You are a dumb shit, aren’t you?”
“Uh…I don’t know…I don’t think so.”
“Get the fuck out of my sight and do what I’ve asked you to do. You may not be around here for long as it is. Now, git!”
I turned around quickly and fumbled with the door knob. My hands were shaking, but I wasn’t sure if it was because I was scared out of my head or whether it was the result of my vicious hangover.
Navigating the hallways, I hurried back to my room and stripped off my uniform. Checking the metal pole where I kept my uniforms on hangers I thankfully saw one fresh green fatigue uniform that I had apparently laundered and ironed sometime the day before.
My mind was racing, trying to figure out what had gone so wrong that the base commander had to get involved. Standing under the steaming water a few minutes later I felt my stomach jump as the thought of something going wrong with Sharon’s pregnancy entered my mind.
Jesus! I thought, a little panicked. What if something’s happened to her or the baby? I hadn’t had a letter from her for a couple of weeks, and the last one didn’t sound very positive. She spoke about hoping the time that we were apart would go fast because she wasn’t feeling too comfortable lately. When I’d read that line I assumed she was speaking about her pregnancy and the size of her belly. But what if something else was going wrong?
I hurried to finish my shower and suddenly I wanted the meeting with the base commander to happen sooner than zero-eight-hundred. Maybe he had received some bad news that had been kept from me.
***
“Major Rusk will see you now!” The notification coming from the ancient-looking airman second class orderly. He held the door open as I all but leaped out from the chair where I’d been sitting for the last thirty minutes.
“Airman DeLeón, reporting as ordered, sir!” I popped as sharp a salute as I could manage.
The major, arms crossed and sitting comfortably in a large brown leather chair, stared at me for a few moments then calmly ordered, “Stand at ease, airman.”
I relaxed and positioned my feet so that they were in line with my shoulders, just as I’d been taught in basic training.
The major, a heavy-set slightly balding and sad-looking man probably in his fifties, looked me over and appeared to take a deep breath. I’d seen him a few times in the club, usually always sitting alone, nursing a Pabst Blue Ribbon and pensively smoking a cigarette.
“Why don’t we just go over here and talk?” He motioned to a medium-sized leather couch positioned to his left and with a little grunt, slowly extricated himself from his large desk chair.
My internal worry machine began to pump out heavy doses of adrenaline and a little shudder passed through my body as I meekly followed him to the couch. He sat on one end, placing a pair of reading glasses on his nose, while I stiffly took my place at the opposite end.
Sitting, my back arched, and with my hands on my knees mainly to keep them from shaking, I noticed that he had a sheet of paper in his hands and was studying it intently.
I wanted to pee so badly.
“OK, son. You’ve been here…what? About two months?” He asked softly, his eyes never leaving the sheet of paper.
“Yes sir. Well, maybe closer to three.”
“Yeah. February 12th. Right?’
“Yes sir.
“Says here you’re married…with a small child. Right?”
“Yes sir.”
“Wife is…where?”
“At my parents’ home, in Houston, sir.”
“Hmm. She doing OK?”
“I think so. She doesn’t write much. But I’m thinking that it’s because she’s so busy with Ricky…my son, and probably not feeling too well with our second child on the way.”
His eyes popped up over the sheet of paper. “You’ve got another child on the way?”
“Yes, sir. Due in August.”
“Did you know that she was pregnant when you got your orders to come here?”
“Oh, yes sir.”
“And you didn’t think to appeal your remote assignment?”
The question shocked me, and blanked out my already struggling thought processes.
“Uh, I don’t know, sir. I mean, I didn’t know I could.”
“So when you were notified about your orders to a remote station did your base commander there in…”
“Winnemucca, sir.”
“Yes, Winnemucca. Anyway, did he know about your wife being pregnant?”
I tried to think back to that day but the visual just wouldn’t come up.
“I don’t know, sir. I can’t remember, but probably not.”
He put the paper down and rubbed his unshaven chin. “Well, it’s highly unusual for an airman, already with an infant and another one on the way, to be sent to a remote posting.”
“I didn’t know that, sir. I’m sorry.”
He took a long breath and looked long and hard at the ceiling.
“Well, it seems that that’s now water under the bridge, isn’t it?”
I shrugged, not knowing how to answer the odd question. A few very long minutes passed and the major continued to stare at the ceiling, as if he’d spotted something very interesting hanging up there.
I resisted looking up, and instead kept my eyes on the now slightly wrinkled sheet of paper.
Finally, he broke his gaze and leveled his eyes at me.
“Let’s talk about what’s going on with you, OK?”
“With me?”
“I’ll get right to the point. You’ve been drinking a lot—do you realize that?”
The question froze me like a grazing deer who’s just heard a twig snap.
“Well…” I said, and let the word drift off into nothingness.
“Well, the reports I’ve received from your shift commanders and the guys at the club say that you’re drinking just about every day. Also, your physical condition when you report to work is…well, less than satisfactory.”
My mouth felt like it was full of cotton, and my shoulders started to tremble. My thoughts were scattered to the point that I couldn’t form any intelligent response to his statements. A fear, beginning low in my bowels began to rise through my abdomen and set my teeth to chattering.
I dared not blink because I felt the dream lurking just behind my twitching eyelids.
“Airman. Are you having some problems? Money? Health? Is someone bullying you?”
“No sir. Nothing like that.”
“Well, usually when someone drinks as much as you seem to have been doing for a couple of months it means there’s something bothering him.”
“Well, I’ve not been able to sleep very well for a long time.”
“Insomnia?”
“No sir. Dreams…well, actually just one dream.”
“Dreams?”
“I keep having a bad dream sir. Very bad. Every night. I’m afraid to sleep…that is, it’s hard for me to sleep because as soon as I do…fall asleep…the dream returns. So I drink, thinking that maybe that one night I won’t dream…”
The words came tumbling out of my mouth without my first having thought them out. I heard them as if someone else were saying them for me.
“Dreams?” He asked. “So you’re drinking to avoid having dreams?”
“Dream, sir. Just one dream. Every night.”
“You’re having the same dream every night?”
My whole body was trembling now, and my words were getting hard to form. “Yes sir, the same dream.”
“Is it like a nightmare?”
“I don’t know, sir…I guess. It’s a very bad, but very real dream. I wake up screaming. My roommate just moved out to another room because of it.”
The major put the sheet of paper down behind him and slid over closer to me.
“Have you told anyone about this dream?”
“God no! If I did, everyone would think I’m crazy. No!”
“Can you tell me about it? The dream?”
My vision suddenly got very blurry as my eyes filled with tears. “I don’t think I can.” My trembling voice said. “Not all of it. I know it’s just a dream, but it’s killing me. After I wake up I’m all sweaty and scared to death. Then I start thinking that the only way not to have the dream is to…oh, I don’t know. So, I think that I have to drink, you see, because if I don’t I’m afraid I won’t have the strength to keep from doing something to myself.”
“Do you have the dream even after you drink?”
“Yes, but it comes much later, I think.” And with that I couldn’t hold my emotions back anymore and the dam broke. I cried uncontrollably and shamelessly. I thought about Sharon…so far away…and my little Ricky. And I cried more. I slid off the couch onto the floor and turned to bury my face in the cushion.
I heard the click of the door as the major closed the door behind him as he left the office.
***
A few minutes later he opened the door and stepped in quietly. Behind him was one of the orderlies who also subbed as our medic. I pushed myself off the floor and slid back onto the couch, wiping my face with the sleeve of my uniform shirt.
“Son,” the major said softly, sitting down quickly next to me. “I’m going to put you on medical leave for the next few days, OK?”
“What?” I asked, a bit confused.
“Yes. And you’re going to be spending a little time with the medic here. He’s going to give you some sedatives to calm you down and help you sleep. Until he releases you, you’re going to be under his care…and I’ll look in on you too, just to make sure you’re alright. OK?”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just put my head down and looked at the floor.
“No one, besides us three, will know what’s happened here or why you’re on medical leave. We’re going to make an entry into your medical record that you’ve come down with a little bit of a blood infection, and until you’re better you’ll be off duty. I’ll make sure your shift commander and sergeant are briefed as such, so you don’t have to explain anything to anyone. Understand?”
“Yes sir, I think I do.”
“So, for the next two or maybe three days you will stay in the infirmary…we’ll call it ‘isolation’ for lack of a better word, until we, me and the medic, think your system is clear of alcohol and you can sleep. Understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“You’ll take all your meals there, and we’ll make sure you have plenty of things to keep your mind occupied while you recuperate a bit. You’ve done quite a bit of physical and mental damage to yourself, I suspect, so we’re going to try to get you back in shape.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Look, I’m not a licensed psychologist although that’s what I wanted to be before I went to college, and because of that I did a lot of reading in that field a long time ago; so I think I know when someone’s depressed. Now, what I’m really supposed to do is make a call to headquarters at Elmendorf and report your activities and mental condition. But, if I do that they’ll send a helicopter to evacuate you. Once you’re there you’ll be placed in some psycho ward, mentally evaluated, and given drugs until they turn you into a fucking zombie. Once that happens you’ll be classified as unfit, medically discharged and sent home.”
“Oh.”
“Now I know that sounds a bit tempting…the going home part, that is. But believe me, you will be fucked for the rest of your life. You’ll never be able to get a good job, you’ll be looked at as some mental case when your military record is reviewed, and in short you will never recover from what I think is something that is completely curable.
Here’s what I think is going on: Simply put, I think you’re very lonely, you miss your wife and child terribly, and you’re worried to death about what’s going to happen to your family when your new baby is born. Secondly, this dream you say you keep having is probably the result of some guilt you’re feeling because of your having to leave your wife and child alone for a year. I’m assuming you didn’t do much traveling before you joined the service. Is that right?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“OK, you with me so far?”
His words were whizzing by me and around me and I wasn’t sure I was understanding everything that he was saying. I wanted to say ‘yes’, but suddenly my throat was completely choked up and all I could manage was a nod.
They both helped me up and the medic led me out of the major’s office. We traveled down a hall that I’d seldom seen and entered a brightly lit room through a door with a red cross painted on it.
It smelled so clean and fresh in there, and the bright white walls almost hurt my eyes. I was led through a second door and into a smaller room. It was larger than my own room and it was painted a soothing pastel green. Along one wall there was a neatly made bed with a mattress twice as thick as mine, and made up with a thick white blanket and puffy pillow.
“This’ll be where you’ll be staying for the next few days.” The medic said. “There’s a bathroom and shower through that door, and in this cabinet are some scrubs that you’ll be wearing while you’re here.”
I didn’t know what ‘scrubs’ were, but when I saw them I understood.
“This isn’t detention, so you’re free to come and go, but I guarantee you that after I give you the sedative you’ll want to do nothing but sleep. Besides, you don’t want anyone else seeing you in scrubs.”
He left for a few minutes while I changed out of my uniform and into the white scrubs.
“OK,” he said, as he came back in carrying a hypodermic on a silver tray. “This’ll sting just a bit at first, but soon you’ll be feeling pretty mellow.”
I’d never seen such a large needle in all my life.
“Turn around and pull your pants down over your right cheek.”
I hardly felt the needle as he plunged it into my right hip, but as he pushed the drug into the muscle the sting was sharp and deep.
“OK, that’s it. Let me put a bandage on this first, then I want you to lay down and close your eyes. You should drop off into a very pleasant slumber in a few seconds.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and swung my legs up and under the tight sheet and heavy white blanket. Pulling them up under my chin I watched as the medic give me one last look as he walked out and softly closed the door. I felt strangely warm and very serene. I closed my eyes and tried to picture Sharon’s face.
I slept a deep dark sleep and lost track of all time. I remember waking and finding a tray of food on a table next to the bed. After eating a bit of the cold food I got up to use the bathroom and found that I felt so weak I had to sit to urinate.
As I re-entered the pastel room I saw the medic standing next to the bed with a small paper cup and a glass of water.
“Here,” He said quietly. “Take these and be sure to drink the entire glass of water. You feeling OK?”
“Yes, just a little weak.”
“That’s fine. I see you ate a little. The next time you wake up you’ll find that your appetite will be a lot better.”
“OK.” I took the two large white capsules and laid back down. He threw the paper cup into a chrome trash bucket and cleared the tray off the table.
“Get a little more rest if you can. The more you sleep the better you’ll feel. I’ll be in to check on you a little later on.” He turned and walked out of the room, leaving the door open an inch or two.
I lay my head on the pillow and tried to remember why I was here. I rolled over onto my side and slid back into the dark cottony world. Not once did I dream…anthing.
Reemergence
I was in “isolation” for three days and I spent most of that time sleeping. On the third day I woke up ravenous and full of energy. After a wonderful hot shower, I found a tray on my table with three giant pancakes, loads of butter, and a large glass of powdered milk. I usually shunned the milk (we never had fresh milk and the powdered milk tasted chalky) but on this day I drank it all down.
As I was finishing, the medic knocked gently on the door. “Yes, come in.” I said.
“Major Rusk’s here and he wants to talk to you. You OK with that?”
“Sure.” I answered.
The door opened wider and the major stepped partially in to the room.
“Hey, how’re you feeling?” He asked softly.
“I feel fine sir, thank you.”
“Right. I’ll let you finish your meal, then I want you to get into uniform…there’s a clean one hanging on the outside of the door…and then, report to my office. OK?”
“Yes sir.”
I finished off the last of the pancakes and quickly undressed to get a quick shower.
Although I felt a little light-headed and a little weak, I felt better than I’d felt for a very long time.
I changed into the fresh uniform that had been brought from my room and stepped out into the main medical room. Although this was the first time I’d been in that room it wouldn’t be long before I would be paying it another visit.
***
The major’s office door was open so when I walked into the orderly room he must’ve seen me.
“Airman DeLeón, step right on in!” I heard as I was getting ready to talk to the elderly orderly.
“Yes sir!” I answered, and went through the little swinging gate separating the orderly room from the entrance foyer.
He asked me to close the door as he moved from behind his desk and onto the couch against the wall.
“Have a seat and tell me how you feel.”
As I took a step toward the couch I realized that I hadn’t saluted, as required. I stopped short, popped to attention, and snapped a sharp salute.
“Oh, Christ, DeLeón—stop that and come and sit!” He slapped the couch’s cushions loudly.
“Yes sir.” I said, lowering my right hand. I took a seat one cushion over.
“So?” He said, eyes gleaming. “I must say, you look much better than the last time you were in here. At least you got some color in your face.”
“Yes sir. I feel pretty good, thanks.”
“OK, so the report from the medic says you hardly moved, and he also says you didn’t complain about any dreams. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right. I don’t think I dreamed about anything. But of course, I was under sedation, so that might have something to do with it.”
“Well, I think what you really needed was to rest up, which you did, and start thinking about not blaming yourself for the situation you’re in. And to get a little better, you need stop the booze.”
“Yes sir, that’s for sure.”
“Also, you need to find something to do on your off time. So since going to the club and drinking is definitely off-limits go find a hobby or something.”
“Yes sir, I’ll try.”
So we had about a thirty-minute chat, during which he asked me a lot of questions about my upbringing—and how I ended up in the Air Force. He shared a few bits about his past, but mostly he wanted me to talk about myself.
Finally, he stood up and shook my hand. He assured me that my present circumstances were not my fault and that he was there to help me if I ever found myself “circling the bowl” again.
“More than anything,” he said as we walked towards the office door, “I don’t want you to feel like there’s no one to talk to. Get close to someone here and share your troubles. You can’t just carry that shit inside of you and expect to make it for a whole year. Lastly, come see me and we can talk things out. OK?”
I promised him I would try to do those things and I reassured him that I was indeed feeling much better.
As I opened the door I heard him say, “Oh, I almost forgot!”
I turned and watched him hurry over to his desk. He reached under a pen holder and pulled a couple of envelopes out.
“Here! These came while you at the medic’s. I took the liberty of retrieving them from the mail bag so I could give them to you myself.” He looked at the two envelopes and smiled. “Well, looks like one’s from mom and the other one’s from your sweetie.”
My heart jumped, but not because I was happy to see that I’d finally received mail. I was apprehensive to read what they each had to say about the other, as the last letters that I’d received from them, although not specific, had alluded to some dissatisfaction with one another.
As I read Sharon’s letter I learned that my intuition had been correct.
The Enterprise Group
When we weren’t working, eating or sleeping, we were expected to perform several duties that, while mundane, were necessary to maintain the cleanliness and integrity of our living areas.
The latrines needed daily attention—cleaning and sanitizing sinks, commodes and urinals—and scrubbing down the walls and floors of the shower rooms. Hallways needed to be swept and mopped, and the trash cans that were placed at each end checked and emptied if necessary. The rec room needed special attention: pool table tops brushed down, card tables wiped down, floors also swept and mopped, and trash cans and ash trays emptied and cleaned. All these duties needed to be completed regularly by all the airmen on the station in addition to attending to the cleanliness and upkeep of our own rooms.
These responsibilities, commonly known as “details” were distributed to everyone on an equal basis. For example, I might find my name on the “latrine shower detail” every Tuesday and Wednesday of each week for the next three months, and the hall trash can detail every other Sunday for the next two months.
The detail lists were made up by the shift sergeants, then reviewed and signed by the base commander. All the areas were inspected on a daily basis to ensure that everyone was performing their assigned details efficiently and promptly. Failure to comply usually resulted in a not so pleasant trip to the commander’s office, and having an additional detail added to what was already assigned.
Many years before I arrived at Tatalina some motivated and imaginative uber-capitalists thought of a unique way to make money on these details, and created the “Detail Enterprise Group”.
When the Detail List was published and posted, this group would make a copy of it and pay a visit to each individual that was assigned a particular duty.
“If you don’t want to clean those nasty commodes and urinals for the next few weeks,” the budding entrepreneur would offer, “I’ll be happy to do it for you for twenty-five cents a day. Since you’re assigned that detail twice a week for the next three months you can just pay me two dollars a month, payable on payday, or six dollars today, and, either way, it’ll be done for you.”
Of course, due to its constant use the latrine needed to be cleaned at least three times a day. To accomplish that task four or five airmen were routinely detailed seven days a week—so, there was some real money to be made.
The “Enterprise Group”, as it came to be known, was made up of airmen who had bought in to the group when one of their member’s year-long tour of duty was done. The average price for a “buy-in” was twenty dollars, depending on the detail, but that buy-in fee was usually made up in the first couple of months.
If one was interested in buying in but didn’t have the up-front capital, the buy-in could be purchased on credit—with the first payments going towards the buy-in fee until it was paid off. The buy-in was always split equally among the members of the Group. Obviously, this required a lot of bookkeeping, usually done by one of the lieutenants.
But probably the best benefit derived from being accepted in this group was that once you were in you were completely exempted from the details assignment list. The sergeants presumed that since you were doing details for other people (even though you were getting paid by them) you shouldn’t have to do your own. This actually worked in the group’s favor—as their absence from the list created more work for the group’s customers and generated more income for themselves.
After my stint in “isolation” I decided that I needed to make a change in my life on the station, and wanting to earn some extra money I considered buying in to the Enterprise Group. One evening, during chow, I saw some members of the Enterprise Group sitting together. I approached them and asked if I could speak to them.
“Sure,” said one of the senior members—a freckled-face, red-haired, radar maintenance tech, named Donny from Iowa. “Have a seat.”
I pulled up a chair from another table and sat down.
“What can we do you for?” He asked, cheerfully.
“Well,” I started off, a bit hesitantly. “I wanted to ask if I could buy in to your group.”
“Hmm, so you want to work some details for cash?”
“Yes, if I could.”
“Well, we don’t think we have an opening yet, but just for chuckles, what detail would you interested in?”
I really hadn’t thought about what detail I would prefer, but I sure has hell know what I didn’t want to do. “I’ll do anything except latrine duty.”
Donny’s face broke into a big grin and he glanced at the others sitting around him.
“Big surprise, eh boys?” They all snickered and shook their heads in the affirmative. “But being that that detail pays the best—you may want to reconsider.”
“Naw,” I said quickly. “I’m pretty sure I’d rather do something else.”
“OK,” Donny said, “Give me your preference, and I’ll put your name down.”
I gave him my name and thought about it for a few seconds.
“How about the Rec Room? Is that open? Or is that going to be open any time soon?”
“Well, that one there doesn’t pay as well as the latrine one, but I will have an opening in a couple of weeks. Looks like you may be in luck.”
“That would be great. How much does it pay?”
“Well it has to be cleaned every day, no later than seventeen-hundred, and it’ll bring in ten cents a day per detail.”
“Every day, like seven days a week?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what would that add up to?”
“I think, from past experience, anywhere from twenty to thirty bucks a month.”
“Wow, that would be great!”
“Yeah. But the kicker is that you have to check it three times a day to make sure it’s OK. If someone puked in a trash can, or threw shit all over the floor, you have to make sure it’s cleaned up. Then the place needs a sweeping and mopping every day regardless. Think you could handle that?”
“For thirty bucks a month? You bet!” I said enthusiastically.
“OK, but understand that if you take it you’re replacing three guys on this detail, so you have to make sure to keep the place tidy all the time. It’s a lot of work.”
“No problem!”
“Right. Now about the buy-in. I’m guessing you want to get that on credit, right?”
“Yes, I don’t have any money.”
“All right, we can do that. And, oh yes, you are aware of the tax you have to pay us, right?”
“Tax?”
“Yeah. You don’t think we run this show for our health, do you?”
“Well…I…”
“Ten percent of your take, payable each month on payday. Right after you get your pay from the detail.”
“Well…I guess that’ll be OK.”
“You bet your ass.” Donny said, as he penciled my name into a spiral notebook. “I’ll let you know when you can start. Anything else?”
“No, I think that’s it.”
“OK,” he said, “That’s that then. Oh, and if you think you might want to buy into the laundry business let me know. We’re losing one of the guys that does the laundry in your wing. If you really need money, you can cash in on that one too. We’ll be willing to waive the buy-in fee since you’re already in for the Rec Room.”
“Oh,” I said, a bit hesitantly. “I don’t know how much work that would add. I still gotta pull my duty in the control room and all.”
“Well honestly, if you know how to iron clothes, which most of us don’t, it’ll be a breeze. Let me know.”
I shook their hands and walked back to my table. I was excited with the anticipation of making some extra money. Before I’d left Winnemucca I had allotted the majority of my pay to go to support Sharon at home. At the time I thought I wouldn’t need much so I guess I overdid it a bit. I was now living on about ten dollars a month.
As I ate my meal I began giving serious consideration to the laundry gig. Since I’d been at Tatalina I had been mostly doing my own because I sure didn’t have any extra cash to spend on someone else doing my washing and ironing. And since I did my own, I was always running into the guys who had that enterprise because it was always hard to find an empty washer or dryer in the station’s laundry room when they in there doing their customers’ laundry.
So the more I thought about it the more I became convinced that taking over the laundry enterprise would end up earning me more money, and if nothing else the extra time that I would have to devote to doing that job would sure help keep me out of the officers’ club.
It seemed like a win-win all the way around.
Springtime in Hell, and Trouble in Houston
It was now early June and the days had quickly gone from twenty hours of darkness to about fourteen hours of bright daylight. The remaining ten hours of each day would soften down to a grayish-hued duskiness—never quite achieving that deep shroud of darkness the bright pulsating stars needed in order to twinkle silently in the frozen sky.
The northern lights, so beautifully dazzling in their wavy green, yellow, and orange bands, and so often smearing the pure blackness of the long Alaskan winter nights, were now nothing more than memories—occasionally and very faintly rising up through the reddish pink horizon of melting tundra, only to give way to a soft pink sunrise.
And, as if an alarm had gone off that only they heard, clouds of mercilessly stinging mosquitos suddenly rose up from the spongy permafrost early that month to feed ravenously upon any and all creatures that dared venture out into the quickly thawing landscape.
The station’s garbage dump, thirty yards from the nearest building was now emerging from the melting snow, its rotting waste sending foul and noxious gases spinning into the cool brisk breeze. Attracted by the stench, lumbering families of black and brown bears, who, while randomly swatting the stinging insects from their eyes and noses, fought violent battles amongst themselves—the winner hoping to lay claim to the tastiest pile of waste. Foxes, wolves, and the occasional wolverine would gingerly move between the hulking and irritable bears to snatch stinking morsels of decaying food out from under their noses.
But the most amazing thing that I learned that spring in 1963 was that Tatalina was home to four “junkyard dogs”. They were pretty much mongrels—maybe part Huskies, and God knows what else—but they were very protective and extremely vicious when it came to guarding their territory—particularly the garbage dump. Fairly large and heavily furred, they were described by one of my co-workers from California as “gnarly dudes”. They all appeared to be males and the gossip on the base was that they mated with the wolves and coyotes that lived in the surrounding forest. Truly, no one knew where they’d come from.
They were well fed, given scraps mostly by the cooks and our one baker, and of course they lived outside except during the heaviest of winter days when they knew enough to seek shelter in the heated garage where the snow tracks were housed.
During the early spring season, they would spend their days lazing around the station and patrolling the dump—terrorizing all but the biggest and bravest of the visiting predators. The smaller of the pesky garbage dump visitors would scamper off, tails tucked low just ahead of the snapping jaws, as soon as the quartet of barking and howling dogs would mount a frontal attack. We all knew it was mostly for show because the scurrying varmints could easily outrun even the swiftest of the four dogs.
But the bears presented a very different problem. No matter how loud and vicious the dogs’ attack would be, the bears, still sluggish from their months of hibernation, would patiently paw the stinking mounds of trash, searching for their hidden putrid treasure and ignoring the dogs’ persistent barking and faux attacks.
One day while hanging out by the back kitchen dock fighting off clouds of mosquitos and watching the daily dog and bear show, we saw that one of the largest of a group of six brown bears finally had all he was gonna take. In a split second, with speed belying his massive size, the bear spun completely around, spittle flying from its open and heavily fanged jaws, and slapped two of the closest dogs with one swipe of his massive paw. The two struck dogs tumbled through the air a full twenty feet, yelping all the way, before hitting the ground in an explosion of fur and dirt. The other two dogs, deciding that perhaps they had ventured a bit too close for comfort, backed up rapidly in reverse, never ceasing their tireless, bear-baiting barks and snarls.
Leaping to their feet, the dogs that had been on the receiving end of the bear’s right cross, hurriedly shook themselves off, and sprinted back to rejoin the fray—apparently none the worse for wear.
Expressing my surprise to the group, I was informed that they’d been told by some long-gone Tatalina inhabitants that these dogs, and probably their parents too, had been batted around pretty regularly by the visiting bears. But, regardless, they always shook off the punch and returned to the attack until the bears, either full or tired of the constant harassment, lumbered off into the deep woods.
***
The letters were coming a bit more regularly now—from both my mom and Sharon. But instead of being elated that I was hearing from home more often, I soon began to dread my daily walk down to the mail room.
At about the four-month mark, and in Sharon’s seventh month of pregnancy, she began complaining in her letters about my mother’s subtle attempts at dominating every aspect of her life. Apparently it had begun simply enough, with mom offering unsolicited advice on how and when to change Ricky’s diaper and even how to properly cook hamburger meat. Eventually it progressed to not-so-subtle suggestions that Sharon had probably been directly responsible for my breaking up with Amparo.
On the other side, my mother’s letters were rife with comments about how surprised she was to find out that Sharon was so tremendously naïve (and really ignorant and lazy) about being a mother, a cook, and a housekeeper. She opined that I should consider myself lucky not to be there to witness my wife’s pathetic attempts at learning how to be a housewife.
Apparently it had gotten so bad that one sideward glance, a word misspoken, or a careless deed would send each of them into loud shouting matches, after which they would retreat to their respective rooms to engage in heated letter writing campaigns; each accusing the other of being insensitive, obtuse, and just plain wrong. Further, both of them would demand that I should immediately address each particular grievance with the other in my next letter.
Although I was no longer having my daily nightmare, I was now living a real one with every letter I received. The end result was that I began to write home less and less, hoping I would also hear from them less and less. Sometimes I would just let two or three letters pile up on my little writing table before I dared open and read one.
I tried as much as I possibly could but soon found myself visiting the club a little more often than I should. But instead of slugging down the shots as fast as I could, I began nursing them for longer periods of time, passing some of the time chatting with bar mates and grousing about the food, work shifts, and the weather. The bartenders, vigilant at first, began to pay less attention to me and soon didn’t seem to care if I sat on one shot for an hour or more.
But mostly I listened to the music, ever country, coming from the constantly blaring jukebox—and I thought…a lot.
I thought about my recent brush with self-destruction and I thought about the dream that had almost pushed me over the edge. Aside from my recently departed roommate and Major Rusk, I hadn’t discussed the dream with anyone else on the station; but even not having done so I sensed that my coworkers and bar mates somehow knew that I’d been struggling with some unknown issues.
It was probably most noticeable in the lack of peer pestering that I had experienced since arriving at Tatalina. There had been several other airmen that had been assigned to the station within two weeks of my arrival, and from the first day they had been subjected to humorous but still vicious harassment, particularly from those who were within a month or so of leaving. But whatever the reason, I was thankful that I’d been spared the extra hassle during my time of extreme strife.
Most of my thinking time at the club was spent on sorting out the problems between my wife and mother back in Houston. But besides writing letters urging each of them to try to work out their differences, I knew that for the most part it was a lost cause. So, late one evening about two weeks after my near nervous breakdown, and after staring at a shot glass full of Jack Daniels for what seemed hours, I finally came to an understanding with myself. I would stop trying to figure out solutions to problems that I could not possibly solve, and instead concentrate on my own well-being and mental stability for the remaining nine months I had left in Alaska.
After chugging down the drink and chasing it with half a glass of now warm water, I bid goodnight to the bartenders and headed back to my room. On the way I decided that first thing tomorrow I would contact Donny from the Enterprise Group, and query him about the upcoming vacancy on the Rec Room detail. Further, I would also place my bid on the Laundry detail.
If I couldn’t control circumstances that were out of my control, then I would spend the next nine months working extra duty and earning as much extra money as I possibly could.
Making those two decisions that evening had an immediate and profound effect on my mood—forever and permanently changing my general outlook on life. And for the first time in many months I slept soundly throughout the night without the help of any medication. The next morning, I awoke refreshed, excited, and anxious to begin this new chapter in my life.
To be continued…
